Liminal
An evening while waiting
for a flight home,
on another continent.
At the airport.
All around me—passersby, travellers—
milling about.
Some move with purpose, others
wander without urgency, without direction.
I wonder where they are headed.
What stories they carry in their bones and bags.
A man passes.
Skeletal-thin—cachectic, almost.
He reminds me of my grandfather
in his final days.
He carries a luggage bag without a handle.
Did it break?
Could he not afford a new one?
He wears a blazer,
pinstriped pants that hang loose off his frame.
His shirt is tucked into the waistband—barely—
already coming undone.
His eyes: haunted.
His posture: impossibly erect.
He walks as if there are eggshells beneath his shoes.
Is he sick?
Is he headed home?
Does anyone wait for him on the other side?
I watch him linger at food stalls, a clothing rack
He buys nothing.
Does he not have enough?
Or has he grown used to walking past
things he cannot touch?
Then: a young couple.
A child in tow.
The mother looks tired.
There’s a heaviness to her shoulders—
fatigue, perhaps pregnancy.
Another child rides atop their luggage,
dragged gently along by the father.
He wraps an arm around her.
Kisses her as they walk.
She leans into him.
A small, fleeting sanctuary
in the middle of transit.
And as I remain at my corner seat,
a stranger among strangers,
My backpack filled with worries and clothes at my feet,
I can't help but wonder what journeys lie ahead- for them, for me,
for all the souls passing through
this liminal space.
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